


A Phone Call, Late

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: The phone barely rings twice before David scrambles for it, snatching it from its cradle. On the other end, Michael: "Guess what I'm watching?"They're in their separate rooms; another long day of filming over with, another nice, uninteresting hotel. David laughs, rolls onto his side and says "God, do I want to know?"
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 55
Kudos: 296





	A Phone Call, Late

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in October and never posted it because it lacked a beginning. It still lacks a proper beginning, but...eh.

The phone barely rings twice before David scrambles for it, snatching it from its cradle. On the other end, Michael: "Guess what I'm watching?" 

They're in their separate rooms; another long day of filming over with, another nice, uninteresting hotel. David laughs, rolls onto his side and says "God, do I want to know?" 

Michael pauses a moment. "Well," he admits, "actually, I don't know what it's called, so I couldn't tell you that, but what I'm actually _watching_ , just at the minute, is you rolling around naked in bed with some lucky lady."

David groans. "Ah, you're _not_. Turn that off." 

"I'm quite enjoying it," Michael protests. "Nice back you've got, David. Nice arse. Did they make you shave your chest for this?"

"Wax, probably," David says weakly, knowing he shouldn't get drawn into this but also knowing exactly where it's, inevitably, going. "Chest hair isn't sexy."

"I disagree," Michael says, sounding a bit distracted. David can hear him shifting about, changing his position. Something unzipping, which makes David's mouth dry. "I'm quite fond of yours. Artistic. Always want to rub my face in it."

"Yeah?" David's breath has gone short.

"Yeah. Bite you a bit, there. Your nipples. Do you like that? Having your chest played with?"

"Yeah," David says, faint. Resigned.

"I thought you would," Michael says. He's quiet for a minute, and David listens to the steady sound of Michael's breath in his ear, warm and intimate. He's starting to feel a bit overheated, and he shifts on the bed, puts his hand on his cock through his jeans. Not _doing_ anything, just. Just there. 

"Then what?" David says.

"What?" Michael sounds distracted, a bit short of breath, and David feels himself start to thicken, thinking about the implications. He licks his lips.

"Then what," he repeats. "What're you. What're you thinking about?"

" _David_." All vowels and gravel now, the sudden drop in Michael's voice, and David shivers, sinking into the sound. "I'm always thinking about you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Cotton rustling, a shifting. David imagines Michael's hand resting on his stomach, warm through his t-shirt. Maybe pushing up under it, seeking skin. "That bloody shirt they put you in, if you were a girl you'd have someone's eye out. Slashed to the navel."

David laughs despite himself, feeling warm all over. Michael sounds so _accusing_.

"Got to give the people what they want," David says, and Michael makes a sound like a growl.

"Nobody's giving me what I want, are they? I want to--" He pauses, tongue clicking wetly at the back of his mouth; David hears it very distinctly, and saliva pools in his own mouth as if in sympathy.

"You want to --?" God, he's all the way hard now, or almost. Inevitable. He was embarrassed about it, at first; Michael barely ever needs to say anything and David's hot under the collar like a teenager. But now it's just. Just. What they do. 

"I kept thinking about taking it off you," Michael gets out, carefully. David can hear the motion of his hand, now, just beginning: if he closes his eyes, he can almost picture it, the slow stroke from root to tip; the twist of Michael's hand on the upstroke as he rubs his palm over the wet head. "Thinking of getting my mouth on you, your neck, your chest. How you'd. How you'd look in my lap like that, letting me put my mouth all over you." 

"God," David says, abruptly breathless. He slips his hand under the waistband of his jogging bottoms, feels his cock bump bare against his knuckles. Takes hold of it, firm and grounding. "What'm I doing in your lap?"

There's a longer pause, then. The hairs on the back of David's neck prickle, anticipatory, and when Michael says, "I'm fucking you," it's like an admission. A confession; and David groans, spreads his thighs. Pushes his toes into the mattress. 

"Is that how you'd want it?" David asks, barely a whisper. He's leaking steadily now; he rubs his thumb through the slick and Michael's breath hitches. 

"Sometimes," Michael says. "Thought about it. You straddling me, taking it. How much you'd blush, all down your chest. _Fuck_."

"Blushing now," David says, and he is. He can feel the heat of it in his cheeks. 

"Are you hard?" Michael asks, voice scratching. "Thinking about riding me?"

"Yeah," David breathes. It feels like telling secrets, touching himself like this and thinking of Michael doing the same. _Hearing_ Michael do it, the steady slick sound of his hand moving and the shudder in his breathing. "And I get really. Really wet when I. What else do you think about?"

Michael swallows. David can hear the wet of it, the shift of his throat. “You remember the day we came back from Ireland? You were — you had those jeans on that were more hole than trouser. I kept thinking I could just put my hands in and touch your skin so easily, you couldn’t stop me. And then I wondered if you’d stop me if I tried to touch your cock, too.”

"I wouldn't stop you," David says. Even as he says it, he knows it's true. They've never -- he's never had Michael's hands on him like that. Never seen the way Michael looks with his cock in his fist, head tipped back and eyes half-lidded. They've never broached the issue, either: it's just this, Michael's voice getting lower and lower in his ear and David's prick stiff and leaking in his own hand. But if Michael -- if Michael ever _wanted_ , David wouldn't stop him. He doesn't think he could. He certainly knows he wouldn't want to.

Probably for the best, then, the walls and floors between them, the telephone line. David closes his eyes and says, quite to his own surprise, "If you were here..."

"Yeah?" Michael's half panting now; David hears the clatter as he shifts the phone from one ear to the other, tucking it between shoulder and chin, as if he's decided he needs both hands free. 

David bites his lip, the muscles jumping in his thighs. "I've never," he says, strained, "with -- a _real_ cock, anyway."

"Oh, _Christ_ ," Michael says, like he's praying for salvation. 

David can hear the blood rushing in his ears, pounding through his skull. "Would you?" 

He's stroking himself fiercely now, one hand knuckling low behind his balls and his cock moving fat and wet in his fist. On the other end of the phone, Michael groans, and David can almost see him: big hands working inside the open vee of his jeans, prick pushing into the tunnel of his fingers. The tendons straining in his neck. 

"Ask me for it," Michael breathes.

There's a tone in his voice that makes David's cock pulse in his hand. He breathes out hard, eyes screwed shut and hips working, the rolling motion getting faster and more erratic as the words get closer to the surface. The thought of saying it makes his throat feel thick and his gut turn over helplessly with a sort of delicious mortification. 

"Fuck me." It's barely vocalised, but Michael makes a wrenched sound that reverberates in his ear. 

"God, yes." 

He sounds _grateful_ , and that's enough to give David strength, wanting that again, Michael's voice kissing his ear, licking down all the straining lines of his body, that breathless praise. 

"Please, I want you to -- I want you."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Michael spits, sounding so crossly Welsh that David chokes out a laugh that turns into a groan when Michael shifts audibly and says "I'm gonna come. _David_."

"Do it," David manages. The edges of his vision are starting to blur; he can feel his own orgasm pounding in his cock and his abdomen and behind his eyes. "Come on, come for me, let me -- want you to come in me, _Michael --_ " 

He gets lost somewhere in the middle of his own want, listening to Michael panting in his ear, little _ah, ah_ noises that suddenly become a curse, and then cut off. David bites his lip so hard it hurts and rubs his thumb over the head of his own cock, imagining Michael's hand there instead, Michael's mouth.

"Please," Michael says. He sounds wrecked; probably, David thinks hotly, he's still coming, milking the last little aftershocks from his spent cock. "David, David, come on, come with me, _come on_ \--" 

It's enough, more than enough. Michael's voice is warm and close in his ear, shredded from this, and David pictures his face when he comes, his hot green eyes and pink mouth. Michael groans in sympathy with him, and for a moment it's so exactly as if he's there that David almost thinks he feels the heat of his skin. 

Then the feeling recedes, slowly, and there's just David, alone on his too-big bed with come on his stomach and the phone clutched, white-knuckled, in his hand. On the other end of the line, Michael's breathing is levelling out.

This is the difficult part, always. David knows he should just hang up; there's always an odd inclination to say _thank you_ , which he fiercely quells. He hears Michael swallow, and then the sounds of him shifting about, presumably putting his clothes to rights. 

"So," Michael says. "I'll, er." 

"Tell me that bloody film's not still on," David says, trying to smile, and Michael laughs his relief, taking the out.

"It is, actually. Can't say I've been paying it much attention, mind."

"Best not. Load of rubbish."

They're quiet for a minute. David can hear Michael smiling. Then Michael says, "See you tomorrow?"

They won't talk about it. They'll meet on set and pick up a conversation from earlier this afternoon, easy and fond and, and _normal_ , as if this never happened. They've been doing it for months, and it's. Well, it's a thing. And when the phone rings tomorrow night, David will pick it up just the same. 

"See you then," David says. The line clicks as Michael hangs up.

David listens to the dialtone for a long moment before he puts the phone down and turns out the light. 

  
  



End file.
